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 O sufi, dervish, subtle kalendar,

How very thirsty all your questions are!

I cannot answer them unless I lean

Upon the perfumed lip of yonder jar.

So great a brightness is the soul of wine

That even in the darkness it will shine,

And cocks will crow, mistaking for the dawn

The apparition of its light divine.

Well might a world without it so forlorn

Mistake the glorious wine-cup for the morn,

'Tis the true morning, there is none beside—

Wine was the happy morning I was born.

If I the faithful vine should e'er forsake,

I think the nightingale's sad heart would break,

The rose throw down her petals in despair—

It were so strange a sacrifice to make.